Leandra Medine's Blog, page 710

The One Sentence Review: Sally LaPointe, Misha Nonoo, Jill Stuart and Dion Lee

If the matrix was a woman and that woman liked feathers and not just feathers but knit sweater vests (and therefore books, too), she just might be Sally LaPointe’s leading spring lady — black skirts, white lining, white skirts, black lining, ruffled hems and a whole big ass lot o’thigh not withstanding.

Art was in motion at Misha Nonoo, case in point: Dustin Yellin in a purple based floral SS15 print halter — yes, halter — dress.

At Jill Stuart there were different versions of stripes on skirts that hit the ankle but varied in shape ranging from full to straight complimented counter stripe poplin blouses, some sans buttons, plus mock necks alluded to a new genre of girljama dressing which stood nicely against the larger journey through the 60s and 70s what with the selection of cotton genie pants, plunging necklines and, of course, it ain’t a 2015 fashion show without le waist belt.

Slits were also thigh high at Dion Lee, which either means more shaving on our end come Spring or less shaving than ever before, because who cares, but what I do care about are royal blue rounded sleeves and what might be abstract airplane prints, and finally chains that trimmed the tops and waists of the dresses like a tangled, old-school telephone chord that you’d twist and tug from the kitchen pantry while speaking to your best friend about how handsome your new crush Dion Lee is.

Spring Awakening: Cushnie et Ochs, Zimmermann, Suno

If there’s one thing Starbucks has taught us, it’s that it is never too early to bring on the pumpkin; they brought out their annual Spiced Latte in late August on behalf of customer demand. As Spring 2015 seems to be hinting at Resort’s marigold micro-trend already, the color of gourds could be everywhere come May, and if not pumpkin specifically than at least varying shades of fall’s golden foliage.

Maybe designers are bringing out the color early because it makes watching summery clothes from the front row of September less torturous than usual. That orange-y hue makes it all feel a little less harsh, like it’s easing us into the season we will eventually claim as our favorite once we’re drinking embarrassing flavored lattes that you have to whisper while ordering (so that no one knows your palette is secretly as susceptible to Basic Syndrome as your Instagram habits are while in the presence of autumn).

Cushnie et Ochs, like Creatures of the Wind on Thursday, is testing out their take on the color in moderation. The show opened in saffron which lasted for 6 looks, then a kibosh was put on the squash-colored fabric courtesy of a silky blue dress Cleopatra might wear if she were alive and partying today. (Queen of the Nile definitely takes her coffee black, by the way. She’s too badass for superfluous froth and Splenda-packed spice.) The subsequent looks were Cushnie all the way: form fitting, sexy, with cut outs and thin straps. And though there was white, stripes, and pink, the finale was black – for Cleopatra, of course, and Cushnie’s target market.

Target markets really are important — my “duh” moment of the day while sitting at Zimmermann. I am not the girl Nicky and Simone have in mind while designing; bohemian, carefree, feminine, beach-y. That’s me putting words in their hands, but those adjectives come across in the clothes.

The show opened with lavender lace. There were a few bits of suiting and trench coats and utility, but the “spirit” of Zimmermann was most apparent in the ruffles and that which shined as it swooshed or draped off models’ shoulders. Immediately I could see each item dangling from the hangers of their Soho boutique, luring in women who long to be as barefoot as their clothes seem to promise.

Just as Zimmermann’s Spring will lure in the window shopper on Mercer, and Cushnie et Och’s will keep their faithful customers happy in classic Cushnie silhouettes, Max Osterweis and Erin Beatty, who showed late Friday evening in Manhattan’s gallery district, made their fans of both the art and fashion world happy because it was classically Suno.

Sometimes — is it so wrong to say? — you do not want to be surprised. The Suno show felt like being back home after a long vacation. For the most part everything was as you left it: the light, the smells, the textures, the place. Some things have changed but you’re happy to embrace them because, per the case of this collection which had a slightly more commercial-lean — the change is in your favor.

I used to watch Suno and feel slightly detached from its scene. There was a sense of, “That’s so cool, but how would I even go about pulling it off?” I’d have to reinterpret to fit my own comfort level or appreciate it as inspiration, and inspiration alone. This collection was different in that each look was instantly wearable; the models could walk right off the runway go on their merry way.

And with a brand like Suno, whose customers feel as familiar with the line as the designers do with their customers, keeping the prints (florals, stripes, geometric color-blocks) in line with the history — and the silhouettes in line with the market — seems like a fantastic idea to someone who is a fan but ideally, a shopper.

5 Funny Things at Fashion Week So Far

“Street Style Photographer” was not listed in Forbes’ online list of deadliest jobs, but considering the way they run backwards through traffic-packed streets with the ferocity and agility of an over-caffeinated college tour giver who is monumentally behind schedule, I’d like to argue that they be added.

There was one photographer in particular on Thursday who stood out among the back-traveling crowd at Lincoln Center. Not only did she crouch in front of cars like a tiger battling dressed up dragons, she had on a spectacular pair of high waisted flared jeans. They were so good that after Leandra and I shouted “CAR!” as a sedan narrowly missed our girl, we asked if she could tell us who made her denim.

Then a bike almost hit her. Dangerous job, remember! (Forbes are you listening?) But she was fine because she’s a pro, and when she made it to the sidewalk she had us check the back lining of her pants for their label. They were Seafarer. We ordered them on-site.

…Meaning, the middle of Broadway between 62nd and 63rd.

Back in the Cadillac where dreams have been coming true for the past 48 hours, our gracious driver Marky Mark (and we, the Funky Bunch) shared tales of the old New York, pointing toward current fashion week venues sprinkled across Chelsea by the West Side Highway that saw their heyday as bumping discotheques.

In one such venue, it all came full circle when a show goer seated to my left might have been a relic from those heavy warehouse party days. If he didn’t look like it (no disco ball paraphernalia in site) he smelled like it.

Later, at Sally LaPointe, Leandra did a round of yoga. I’m not sure if this was funny so much as it was her demonstrating the uh, ironic use of our fav word “cool.” But still, it counts as a number in this list if you’ve laughed at the appropriate points.

Number four was finding out that the Apple store on 14th Street welcomes us show goers who lost Mophies or wasted battery on Instagrams with wide, open arms. I calculated a total of 6 people from varying publications wearing very fun shoes.

The last funny thing of this scorching hot day is a joke that someone next to Anna Wintour told her at Jason Wu, because although my lip-reading skills aren’t sharp enough to have caught the punchline, I did catch her smile — a toothless smirk with both corners of her mouth turned so far North that I can only imagine it had something to do with a chicken who was crossing the street style photographer-laden road.

Bonus round, #6: at Misha Nonoo, a man walked down the runway with an iced coffee while wearing socks and heels.

(His name is Dustin Yellin, by the way, and when he’s not modeling he’s being an artist in Brooklyn / inspiring Misha’s Spring 15 collection.)

Original image shot by Tommy Ton for Style.com

Portraits of Artists as Young Designers

There are clothes that make you feel good, that you’re happy to see and that you might even want to wear. And then there are clothes that make you think — that almost frustrate you because they seem to perfectly emblematize who you are, or think you are, or want to be, but that you could have never imagined on your own without first having seen them served to you. They make you wonder what fashion is really about: being clothed or getting dressed, self expression or a statement far larger than the individual.

For Creatures of the Wind, clothes might be something else altogether.

In previous seasons, designers Shane Gabier and Christopher Peters have focused intently on their technical expertise, using the help of an inherently artful eye — the time and work put into producing a uniquely perfect print, with its hand-sewn appliqués or knitted stripes from a fabric indigenous to the Congo.

In the previous two seasons, maybe the focus has been a bit less on technique and process and more on form, proving how far a little restraint can go. Up yesterday were thin cotton waist coats quietly cinched at rib level, a selection of stripes and a countering floral prints that impressively appeared fresh as opposed to ironically ground-breaking. There were new, novel silhouettes like gowns set in khaki cotton twill and there were the secret surprises that make Creatures of the Wind as special as it is: sequined straps only visible from a backside view, a plaid print detected through black and white crystals. If they came in like a lamb, they were out like a roaring lion.

Across town at Tome, another male duo pushed its own boundaries maintaining identity with a series of culottes that have become characteristic of a brand that prides itself on powerfully concealing the female silhouette in a way that shows nothing and everything in such gorgeously paradoxical synchrony. Tie belts continued to populate the waists of silk sheaths that more or less hit ankle-level next to a new series of blue and green or red and navy belts hidden between trench vests and pants.

Chiffon appliqués covered tube tops that were worn with large skirts and modeled by a notably diverse range of models. A yellow and red floral print unofficially marked itself the second freshly-minted print of spring and an interpretation on the traditional sari was approximated for adoption by a western wearer.

Peter Som came in with green floral prints, showed black and white stripes, a selection of white and blue shirting — sometimes covered by black cut-out embroidered plackets — and a small army of gold lame wearing champions, countering the one-piece swimsuits that hit behind shirt dresses. Everything screamed wearable right now. That and easy.

Three Shows, Three Sentences

Lisa Perry was an early indication that this might be the season of the re-imagined ’60s (the second was Coach) as opposed to the 2000s per my scared prediction a few weeks ago, but it was also an opportunity for Perry to crack her knuckles and show us what she does best: a bold color among black and white in silhouettes that range from basic, to sporty, to whoa cool! — there are pants under that deep v-necked dress.

At Kaelen the models wore flowers in their hair — or at least a few of them did, the lucky ones I guess — but the really lucky ones were those who had a blonde scarecrow’s wig flying out from the hems of skirts and jackets in the form of fringe, fringe, fringe, which I liked so much that I almost stole hay from a barn up in Riverside but then I said, Amelia, that is a D.I.do not trY, leave it to the professionals, and then one more thing before I run out of breath is that I am all about a stripe and Kaelen was obviously like, Girl, I got you.

Finally, there were candy buttons on the skirts and dresses at Honor — unsurprising given that her trademark has officially become sugary confections in the forms of cake-tiered fabrics and silhouettes that a little girl might dream of but only a woman (paired with her furrowed brow deliberately mussed hair) could pull off, which makes total sense when considering Zosia Mamet, who oohed and ahhed from across the runway at the clothes, and maybe too because the giant pearls on the back of the finale gown looked like Lemon Heads with the yellow bit sucked off. Yum.

Fashion Week PSA: “Cool” Means So Much Stuff

Did you know that you can only feed an RSS…uh, feed, once per story? We learned that last night while trying to send this post, which you’re about to not just read but experience, to the feed five times. Ultimately, we were denied harder than pregnant Katherine Heigl at a nightclub but this announcement is important. It is as important as a Mandarin collar, and that means it’s worthy of five failed flight attempts in the direction of Rich Site Summaries.

If this were a Ted Talk, here’s where we’d ask you: “By a show of hands, how many of you read Man Repeller on the reg?” We would not mean on the rag. We would not mean on the oregano either.

Assuming that the majority of you raised your hands, we would now ask if you have noticed the overwhelming placement of the word “cool” throughout the site. If you have, great! If you haven’t, figure this: we’ve been dedicated to using benign double-letter as: adjectives, verbs, nouns — and when we’re feeling particularly drunk, conjunctions.

In using the word so frequently, it’s graduated from its root, just north of snowman city and has continued forward to characterize everything from worldwide calamity to sartorial splendor and even to the celestial sensation that surrounds one’s tastebuds when biting into a whole wheat everything bagel with vegetable tofu cream cheese.

Cool.

Yesterday both Amelia and myself found ourselves recalling flammable sequined straps, pastel pleather skirts and floral chiffon appliqués stitched over strapless bodices as “really, really cool.”

As a result, we thought it best to define the word for you, once and for all, in five simple bullet points. This way, when you begin to notice it populate the reviews in the coming week you know that what we mean is far more significant than just a four letter cucumber.

COOL CAN MEAN:

*Automatic, supersonic, hypnotic, AND funky fresh. It can also be used to describe Ciara.

*Smart; cool can be used to replace “smart,” to depict anyone as intellectual as, say, David Foster Wallace, historically apt as Henry Kissinger, scientifically capable as Albert Einstein and as socially credible as Andy “Bravo” Cohen.

*Weird; cool can be used to replace “weird” but only when weird is used to replace a combination of sketchy and vaguely dishonest — if someone stole your lunch money and then spent it on a red ant farm, for example, you might say, “That was…cool.”

*Substantially pretty while emitting the swagger of Kanye West. Representative figures include french women. “You look so cool” is therefore a high honor.

*Wildcard: cool can mean kind — kinder than Oprah, it can mean vigilant — with more courage to its four letters than to Davey Crockett’s hunting expedition (cue: cool hat) and finally, it can mean “awesome,” non-hyperbolically, spoken with full authenticity and not a single tinge of sarcasm (or ground beef breath).

Sometimes, too — a lot of times actually — cool just means cool.

Joan of Snark

Joan Rivers once said that if you don’t laugh, life is tough. I’m not sure whether this came before or after she quipped that she’s had so much plastic surgery in life, she planned to donate her body to Tupperware afterwards. But who cares.

A common thread among several of the greatest comedians of our time is the unapologetic and often relentless presence of death in their routines. Chalk it up to the textbook ideals that encompass comic relief, or consider it simply a great mind’s approach to life and what comes after, using one’s occupation as a portal to hash it out.

Joan Rivers was a complicated feminist. She tore down women with a brand of brutal snark that became endemic to her success. She also broke a stereotype — that only men could truly be funny — and forged a path paved with self-deprecating jokes for the women who followed. Without Rivers, it’s hard to determine whether Chelsea Handler, Sarah Silverman or Amy Schumer could now run the extensive circles they do around Hollywood with their witticisms.

There is something rather distinct to be said about Joan Rivers as proof of concept — that women can have it all: self-deprecation, sex jokes, a television show and a vagina– proving itself and the sense of invincibility that it propels. Rivers could be crass, rude, hugely insensitive and brazen. She didn’t seem to care at all where popular opinion of her laid — mostly, I’d imagine, because she made the best jokes about herself  before anyone else could.

But when I was asked to appear on Fashion Police alongside The Great Joan two years ago almost to date, I also learned that she was kind. That she stood firmly by her ideals and took care of the people around her — those who needed her and those who didn’t know they needed her. She said she hated my jeans, I told her I hated her sweater. Together we laughed.

That’s kind of when it clicked, you know? That perhaps all this time she hadn’t just been tearing women down, but boosting their social immune systems. Getting them ready for the bullshit that emerges as it does with age, heartbreak, emotional turmoil and rejection, hoping that with the right state of mind, a solid layer of tough enough skin, and the ability to dish it back, we could all just…laugh.

Image from the set of The Muppets Take Manhattan

Fashion Week Prop Kit

Behind every great stylist is a prop kit: a carry-on suitcase contraption with labeled baggies and plastic containers and removable zip-pouches, all stuffed with the unsung heroes that make a beautifully finished editorial actually come to life. Prop kits hold the tools that help stylists tailor an ill-fitting sample while teetering on some mountain for a photo shoot, then alter a hem and cover a nipple from a desolate, tick-laden field with a young photographer and an up-and-coming model.

The fashion week prop kit is similar. We wouldn’t exist without it. We wouldn’t make the shows without it either, or if we did we’d show up with half a shirt on and then have a panic attack halfway through.

So what’s inside these magical prop kits, Ryan Seacrest? Why, let us show you:

(And by show I mean tell.)

Almonds to eat/milk

For when hunger strikes, and nearby coffee shops don’t have dairy alternatives.

Deodorant

Either for you or your seat mate.

Band-Aids

For blisters and Nelly tributes.

Safety pins

To save lives and make friends.

Boob lifters

Aka Bare Lifts. These are seriously one of the greatest inventions ever when you cannot deal with a bra but need your boobs up and at ‘em. They don’t hide nipples but you can’t have it all.  

Binder clips

Fix clothes in a pinch. Literally. BADUM-CHA!

Double stick tape

Mend a hem OTG.

*OTG = prop kit code for On The Go.

Gaffer tape

You know, I have no clue what this is for but back in my assistant days I was always told to make sure it was always in the prop kit. We never used it, but I now like to carry at least 45 rolls in my own day-to-day excursions just in case.

Change of underwear

For dangerous situations, pants that you forgot were white or hot days.

Clip-on roller skates

There’s no better way to haul ass to a show.

Small Cornish Game Hen, roasted

Portable protein that you likely won’t have to share since your seat mate has a high likelihood of being vegetarian.

A Personal Porta Potty

We in the biz call this a water bottle you don’t mind throwing out.

Sunglasses

To take a 20-minute nap during a particularly mellow show.

Metro card

You should just always have one.

Those sneakers with the toes

For running, because you will be late.

Cold brew iced coffee in a sippy cup

No yawning, no spills.

A papoose

A stroller is hard to pack, but a papoose is a lovely way to get around during fashion week if your friends or editors agree to strap it on and carry you. Bribe them with the above coffee.

Skateboard

An alternative option to the above sneakers with toes and papoose; particularly handy for street style photos.

Lavender scented incense

Ambiance is everything. Create your own.

Tide To-Go

For the blood portion of blood, sweat, tears.

Doughnuts

Three kinds: the edible kind as a snack. The hair kind to fling at friends sitting across the runway to get their attention. And finally, the ass kind, because fashion week benches are hard…

But fashion week — with a properly packed prop kit — doesn’t have to be.

(Now what would put in yours?)

The One Sentence Recap, Twice

This morning officially initiated fashion week in spite of the plentiful knowledge we accrued yesterday. Starting with Coach at 9AM on the West Side Highway and BCBG Max Azria at 10AM by the “tents” at Lincoln Center one common theme already runs strong and I’m pretty sure well continue to see it: there are models and there are clothes. Here are one sentence recaps from both shows

Coach: The 60s + 90s incidentally = 2014 as evidenced the prevalence of pastel patent leather straight mini skirts, a uniform, stringy and slightly oily hairstyle (which Amelia has already started to test drive) of one very dramatic, sight impairing comb over, flatform slides and clogs, gilded rave beads as chokers — and unseasonal fur, presumably faux, served in similar shades of an Easter egg carton.

BCBG: These girls have black belts in tying pastel belts around their waists and to break up box-shaped flimsy, deep v dresses and tops (as paired with culottes) in similarly pale colors. Hai-yah!

Ed note from Amelia:  one model at BCBG of look 13 fame did not wear shoes. She seems fun.

Resuming Life Post-Share House

Share House:

[Pro-nounce how-ev-er you want]

A house that used to be a home (typically near a body of water), that some unsuspecting family decided they would rent as a side-hustle to a nice group of girls,  that has since been taken over by upwards of 20-40 coed human bodies and possibly a dog despite the very clear contractual agreement in bold which states: no more than 5 people allowed at a time; no more than 2 cars in the driveway. Zero dogs.

But let’s ignore the technical illegality of most share houses – you’re not supposed to split an all-you-can-eat salad bar plate among friends either and you don’t see me calling the cops on you — and instead focus on returning to life post-share (abbreviated as LPS going forward).

1) Sleeping

Waking up in a bed without three fellow sleepers sandwiching you in a head-to-foot-to-head arrangement should typically not be cause for alarm or confusion, but in the first week that follows LPS, anything involving cleanliness, normalcy, alone time or comfort can and will throw you off.

How to cope: Purchase extra pillows to take up a lot of space in your own bed. It is helpful to spray each one with a different, suffocating perfume. Each night, remove one pillow. By the end of two weeks you’ll feel right as rain.

2) Eating:

There are two speeds when it comes to eating in a share house: starvation mode, and late night pizza binging. There is no in-between. There are almost never snacks. A blessed morning is one that involves an angelic house guest who decided to wake up early and grab everyone iced coffees and bagels, but this only happens when said guest is trying to win the heart of a share house roommate.

How to cope: you’ll find that the body returns to a normal eating schedule rather quickly, but the violent cravings for pizza and the hot-cheese burn on the roof of your mouth take at least 2 months to go away. Suffer through this one. Suffer through.

3) Drinking:

Your body is now accustomed to copious amounts of beer, vodka, tequila, Fireball and Gatorade. Getting a buzz is hard LPS, but actually enjoying drinking again is harder.

How to cope: stop treating drinking like an obligation and soon your love of a rosé buzz will return. There is no rush, only month-delayed hangovers.

4) Hooking up:

You may find it awkward to romance someone without 10 other people sleeping in the same room after LPS. How are you supposed to whisper sweet nothings into the ear of a new dalliance without a chorus of snores from your bedmates (see #1)?

How to cope: much like we adjust to peaceful fall slumber without the lull of summer’s crickets, kissing-and-then-some sans roomies will eventually feel normal again too. In fact, you might even remember that you miss privacy. So much so that you’ll also do things like close the bathroom door! However, if it helps, turn the TV on to CNN or something similar in the meantime.

5) Drama:

This you will miss more than anything, but you’ll run around and lie by saying, “The summer was great but I won’t miss the drama.” That’s okay, denial is totally normal, and LPS tends to be a lot more quiet without all of the ceramic hair straighteners lying around that are just asking to be stepped on and broken.

How to cope: avoid picking fights out of habit by reminding yourself that the strangers on your morning commute probably have no idea who borrowed your skirt, nor do they care who Beard Guy is. Still, expressing yourself is important; not doing so can lead to repressed anger, so if you feel the need for drama coming on, slap on a Flash tat and call it a day.

The only thing I can’t help you with is the dirt on the bottom of your feet. That you’re stuck with, possibly forever. It’s the Ghost of Share House Past.

Images shot by Slim Aarons